Thirty-one

London | May 15, 2005

MIKE BURKE STOOD by himself in a rainy breeze on the corner of South Audley Street and Grosvenor Square, watching a door at the side of the U.S. embassy. The day before, he’d seen a flood of workers pour out that door at the end of the day, avoiding the public entrance at the front. So he guessed this was the exit that Kovalenko would use.

It was almost five o’clock, and Burke had already been there for more than an hour. It would have been easier, of course, to wait outside the FBI agent’s apartment. It was probably somewhere around here, or over in Knightsbridge. But Kovalenko wasn’t listed in the telephone book or in any of the online directories Burke tried. To get an address, Burke would have to hire an investigator or sweet-talk someone who had access to the embassy’s internal directories. That would take a while, and he didn’t have the time.

So here he was, getting wet.

The line in front of the embassy snaked halfway around the block, organized by an airport-style rope-and-pole system. The queue was remarkably patient, almost docile, under a conga line of umbrellas. It was like a temporary village, linked to the outside world via dozens of cell phones. People were eating and playing cards, talking, reading, and changing diapers. Every so often, someone would dart around the block to use the facilities, then jog back to thank whoever it was that saved his place in line.

The day before, Burke had waited three hours to see Kovalenko, only to learn that the Legat was unable to “fit him in.” The soonest an appointment could be arranged, he was told, was in three weeks.

Three weeks! Meanwhile, Aherne & Associates would remain shuttered, the information about Wilson would go nowhere, and the old man would probably finish the job of drinking himself to death.

Burke had returned from his travels to Belgrade and Ljubljana to find Kate’s father wallowing in self-pity. “I’m like a clock that you wind with a spring,” he said with a chuckle, “and I can feel myself winding down …” Lest Burke didn’t get the point, he repeated the phrase with a raised eyebrow: “Winding down.” Burke hadn’t been gone for more than a week, but in that week Tommy had reached a point where sobriety was a foreign state. He’d taken to having an eye-opener with his morning coffee, which was a bit like kick-starting a Harley. Most afternoons, he had to be escorted home by one of his friends.

The way Burke saw it, a meeting with Kovalenko was urgent, regardless of any threat Wilson might pose.

From where he stood, Burke made repeated calls from his cell phone to the embassy, asking to speak with the Legat. Each time, he was told that Mr. Kovalenko was in conference, or “away from his desk,” or simply not taking calls. Each time, Burke left a message, assuring the assistant that his business was urgent.

But nothing happened.

If it had been up to Tommy, that would have been the end of it. The old man was of the firm opinion that they should leave the matter to the Irish courts. Their solicitor was confident that Aherne & Associates would prevail, since they’d done nothing wrong. But it might take a while for the case to be heard.

“How long?” Burke had asked.

“With luck,” the solicitor replied, “we should be on the docket by the end of June.”

“June!” Burke and Tommy shouted in unison.

The solicitor had winced. “Or July.”

Which was why Burke was standing in a flying drizzle outside the embassy. He’d waited and waited, and called and called. Now, he was stalking the sonofabitch.

He’d met Kovalenko only once – at the “interview” in the Garda’s office. But he’d recognize him in an instant. The doughy face, the purselike mouth, the piggy little eyes … Time after time, he thought he saw the G-man coming out. But it was always someone else.

Surveillance was an odd business. It was deeply boring, except when it wasn’t, and then it was pure adrenaline. It required the same kind of unfocused attention that long drives demanded. You had to be there and not be there at the same time. Like Schrodinger’s cat.

Burke was beginning to feel conspicuous. It was only a matter of time before a marine guard or a bobby would ask him what he was doing there.

To this worry was added the fear that he might have missed his quarry, that Kovalenko had exited through another door. There must be a parking lot somewhere, behind the building or underground. Maybe Kovalenko had a car, in which case Burke might never see him. He’d almost talked himself into giving up, when Kovalenko came around the corner.

Burke was pretty good at spotting cops. There was something about the way they held themselves, the way they walked. And Kovalenko might as well have been wearing a uniform. In a sense, he was wearing a uniform. His hair was actually combed, and combed in a way that the comb’s teethmarks were embalmed in gel. He wore the regulation Dick Tracy suit, blue shirt, and striped tie. In his right hand, just below the requisite Rolex, was a shining black attaché case. His stride was that of a man who was privileged to carry a gun in a country that despised them.

Burke followed him around the corner and into the Nightingale Arms, a small pub that was all mahogany and cut glass. The place was crowded and smoky, with a mix of young men talking equities and Bond Street shop girls being beautiful.

People were two deep at the bar, where Kovalenko stood. Burke watched him catch the bartender’s eye. Money changed hands and, a moment later, the Legat held a glass of red wine. It was obvious from the interchange that Kovalenko was a regular. He probably came here every night after work.

The FBI agent sat down on a banquette at a small table in the corner, next to a young couple staring into each other’s eyes over pints of lager. Burke touched a chair no one was using.

“Okay if I sit here?”

Kovalenko made a magnanimous gesture: Be my guest.

It annoyed Burke that the G-man did not recognize him, but sat where he was, studying his nails. Which, Burke saw, were neatly manicured.

The crowd was a roar around them, the noise rising and falling like a chorus of cicadas in late summer. Inexplicable crescendoes and fades.

Burke leaned forward. “I followed you here,” he said.

Kovalenko’s eyebrows knitted together. He must have misunderstood. Leaning toward Burke, he cocked his head to the side, the better to hear. “Sorry?”

Burke got up from his seat, and squeezed onto the banquette next to Kovalenko, who suddenly found himself boxed in. “I followed you here,” Burke repeated.

Kovalenko blinked. Frowned. His eyes jumped left and right, then came to rest on Burke’s hands. Seeing them on the table, the Legat seemed relieved. “Why did you do that?”

Burke shook his head, and chuckled bitterly. “You don’t even remember who I am, do you?”

Kovalenko lifted his glass. Took a sip. Set it back down. He looked Burke up and down. Then he chuckled. “Dublin,” he said.

“Right.”

“You’re the Ayn Rand guy. It’s Burke, right?”

“Right.”

Kovalenko gave Burke an appraising look. “Okay, so … what can I do you for, Mr. Burke?”

“Well, I was hoping … maybe you’ll recall. You shut us down. My father-in-law’s company. I was hoping we could fix that.”

Kovalenko relaxed. He leaned back against the wall, and all the tension went out of his body. He looked at Burke as if Burke were a pane of glass, and sighed.

Which made Burke even angrier. But he kept it in. Reaching into his pocket, Burke pulled out a three-by-five card on which he’d carefully printed the following information:

Jack Wilson

P.O. Box 2000

White Deer, PA 17887

(Allenwood Prison)

Stanford University

“Calculating Vector Drag in Scalar Pair-Coupling”

“You were right about the guy you’re looking for,” Burke told him, handing the card to Kovalenko. “He’s dangerous.”

Kovalenko glanced at the card. “This is Mr. d’Anconia?”

Burke nodded.

“But I’m guessing this isn’t his current address,” Kovalenko said. “If it was, he wouldn’t be a problem.”

“No, he got out –”

“What’s this?” the Legat asked, holding the card up for Burke to see, snapping it with his finger. “Vector drag – what’s a vector drag?”

“That’s the reason Wilson went to Belgrade,” Burke told him. “He was researching a man named Tesla.”

“The inventor?”

“Right.” Burke was surprised the FBI agent had heard of him.

“So what does Mr. Wilson want with a dead inventor?” the Legat demanded. “Some kind of science project?”

Burke ignored the sarcasm. “I think he’s trying to build a weapon.”

Kovalenko chuckled. “A weapon! Well, that’s just great. Maybe he’ll invent the catapult.”

Burke acknowledged the joke with a smile, and a nod. He wanted to tell the man in front of him why Wilson should be taken seriously, but when Burke began to explain, the Legat cut him off, holding his hand up like a traffic cop.

“So, if I wanted to talk to Mr. Wilson, where would I find him?”

Burke shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, how close can you get?” Kovalenko asked. “Is he in China? Brazil?”

“I don’t know where he is. What I gave you – his name – Allenwood – Stanford – that’s it. And it wasn’t easy to get.” He paused. “Look,” he said, “I think you should take this guy seriously. He’s –”

“Let me tell you something,” Kovalenko said in a bored voice. “I’ve got a lot on my plate. I got terrorist cells – real guys with bombs – up north. I’ve got problems with container ships and dirty bombs, snake-heads and Chechens. Not to mention the Nigerians, who are into everything. And guess what? I’m facing surgery. On my gallbladder! You realize how serious that is?”

Burke wanted to kill him. “How serious what is?” Burke asked. “The bombs or your gallbladder?”

Kovalenko smiled, as if Burke had just given him permission for something. “Let me explain it to you,” he said. “What this is all about – you and me, sitting here together, having a chat like we are – is cooperation. You want your business open? You want the indictment dropped? Help me find the guy.”

“I have,” Burke told him.

Kovalenko shook his head, and sighed, feigning infinite patience. “Not really.” He took another sip of wine. “Truth is, yes! I’d love to have a chat with Mr.” – he glanced at the card – “Wilson. But I got to be frank with you. He’s nowhere near the top of my To Do list. And anyway,” he said, waving the card as if to dry it, “what good does this do me? It’s yesterday’s news.”

“It’s his name. The prison must have records. Stanford … You could find him.”

Kovalenko shrugged. “Maybe. But how does that help you? If I find him?”

Burke couldn’t believe it.

Kovalenko laughed. “You want to reopen, right?”

Burke nodded.

“Okay,” Kovalenko said, “what’s it called?” He frowned, pretending to think hard. “Asshole Associates, right? Something like that. You want to reopen Asshole Associates. No problem. Here’s what you do: You find your client! But find him before I do. Because if I find him first, it doesn’t do fuck-all for you. You understand what I’m saying? Don’t tell me where he was a couple of months ago. Because that doesn’t help me.”

Burke took a deep breath, and counted to five. “Let’s say I do find him –”

“Then we’ll have a deal,” Kovalenko told him, suddenly magnanimous. “I’ll tell the Garda to back off, and you can go back to doing what you do best: setting up fronts for people who cheat on their taxes.”

Burke took an even deeper breath. He wanted to hit the guy. Instead, he said, “How do I know you’ll do what you say?”

Kovalenko shrugged. “Because I always do what I say. Meantime, don’t call me. Don’t harass my assistant. She’s busy, and, as incredible as it may seem, I’ve got other priorities.”

Other priorities. It was all Burke could take. He sat where he was, watching the red mist descend in front of his eyes, trying to decide whether to bitch-slap the guy or head-butt him. It wouldn’t help things, he realized that, but it would give him a feeling of great satisfaction – if only for a little while.

Kovalenko had no way of knowing, but Burke had a temper. The kind that was hard to control. His parents had worked hard to exorcise it, taking him all the way into Charlottesville for karate lessons, where the civilizing effect of bowing to one’s opponent soothed his mother.

If I smack this guy in the face, Burke thought, there won’t be any real damage, not really. Unless he pulls a gun, and blows my head off. So maybe I should just put him out: grab him by his fucking tie, give it a jerk, and head-butt him. For a moment, this seemed like a plan. But only for a moment. Assaulting an FBI agent could only end with Burke behind bars and the old man totally banjaxed. Even so …

He was still thinking about it when he saw the young girl next to him, cringing toward her boyfriend, practically crawling into his lap. She looked terrified. And so, Burke saw, did Kovalenko, though he was better at hiding it.

He got to his feet. The adrenaline fade left him jangled and disoriented. Turning, he pushed his way through the crowded pub, and out to the sidewalk. For a moment, he stood there with his eyes closed, face turned to the sky, feeling the drizzle.

*

A rough day on the Irish Sea. The ferry pitched and plunged in the rain, plowing through a sea of white-caps. Burke stood by the rail on the deck, shivering in the spray from the bow. His eyes were on the water, but his mind was in London. It would have been grand to inflict a bit of bodily harm on Kovalenko – a mistake, yes, but a delicious one. Now, he’d probably never see him again.

The main cabin of the ferry was filled with uniformed schoolkids returning from a trip to the big city. They were filled with youthful energy, teasing and flirting, relentlessly mobile, whooping with laughter.

Not so, himself. He felt like a hermit crab, hunkered into his Burberry, dark thoughts behind his eyes.